


Cast Back

by Sheepyblue



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: 1930s, Gatsby didnt die, alternative, depression era, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-19 05:14:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1456792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheepyblue/pseuds/Sheepyblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1932 and Nick Carraway has come a long way since the summer of 1922. No longer in the bond business, Nick now owns a ranch, however a surprise visitor could shake this new world up</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a random little idea I had.  
> I hope you enjoy reading and sorry for any mistakes  
> The Great Gatsby belongs to Fitzgerald, I only own this writing and the character, Angelo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi anybody who happens to be reading this. I've noticed this fic still gets kudos now and then and I just wanted to say thank you for those and sorry for never finishing it. I confess it will probably not get finished as I kind of lost inspiration, will and time to be able to work on it, so just a warning for those beginning it - it's incomplete and likely to remain so. Thank you for viewing it though and thanks for reading if you decide to read on :)

If I had not been dwelling on the past that afternoon, then I hold a strong, illogical belief that it would not have happened.  
Unusually, my mind had drifted back to the bond selling days, a memory I now defined as a ray of sunlight cut up and obscured by unfriendly shadows. Wandering down the roads of the past has always evoked a sense of sadness in me, so I rarely allow myself to do so. But that afternoon, I sense I had to, to cast myself back to accept the present events.

It was a chance meeting with an elderly man that led me here. From the glamour of another New York Summer to the hard beaten dust roads of rural California, it was a journey made without thought, just a sense of escape and a desire to have something of my own. It turned out to be a wise decision as a decade of frivolity collapsed on its self and I alone seemed immune to a widespread depression. It was a ranch I bought, you see, and though as we grow older we lose our love for an uncontrollable party, we never lose the need for food.

As bond selling fell to pieces and a glamorous mask eroded, I felt as though life was finally beginning again. It had been on hold since 1922, but finally the seasons were changing.

Over the past few years, I have affirmed something I learnt that Summer. Personality is a series of unbroken successful gestures and the men who are happiest know this. Men sift through here like sand through a sieve, but the hard workers who linger and persevere are the ones who can smile. There is nothing more rewarding than a man entering with a polite handshake and offering his services as opposed to one entering with a frown and demanding work. The former are strong, the latter are vulnerable in this new decade.

The ability to reserve judgement is still something I value highly. Class nor colour nor appearance defines a man and I have come to realise that those who have already seen hardship are often more pleasant. Those who have sprung straight from the casual twenties to the tight lipped thirties struggle to be agreeable.

As I dwelled on this, I must have heard the gate to the yard creak open faintly, for a moment letter there were voices that cast me from my thoughts.

'Hello there, I wish to see your boss.'  
There was something familiar in the voice, but I could not help but think it was oddly jarring.  
'Who's to say that I ain't the boss round here?'  
'Well, I-'  
'Oh, nah, I jus' jokin' with us, sure I'll take you to him right now.'

I sat up as their footsteps crossed the yard and a gentle knocking reached my door.  
'Mr Carraway, this man jus' come.'  
'Bring him in, Angelo.'  
Angelo did so, careful to close the door behind him as he led the man up the stairs.  
'This way sir, good afternoon, Mr Carraway, I jus' been fixin' that machine of yours, but now this guy has come.'  
'Than-' I faltered for the stranger had stepped into the room.  
A smile, one that warped the whole world away as it demanded your attention was fixed on me and every word seemed to have escaped mind. It seemed to shine artificially in the dull room, but it was so genuine that I had no idea what to think.  
Here stood a man, a miraculous one who had not only learnt to cling onto the past, but had also seemingly beaten death and halted the aging process. There was something so unchanged about him that for a moment I wondered as to whether it was me who was out of time, caught in the wrong place.  
'Mr Carraway?' Angelo started, but the man stepped forward, the smile still on his face.  
'Hello, old sport.'  
'Gatsby.'


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 :)

'Angelo, why don't you go and see if you can get that clock working?' I glanced quickly at the man, then back to Gatsby.  
'No I ain't so sure, Mr Carraway, this fella jus walk right on in like he own the place- I ain't so sure I trust 'im, sir,' the man folded his arms and it suddenly occured to me that this dusty land had a very limited color palette. It was awash with faded browns, matte whites and a frugal splash of yellow. Then, into this dull picture had wandered Gatsby, a man who in my head was a shade of polished gold and an artificial blue. It was, quite literally, as if he had walked from one decade to another, no winding paths just a small bridge that brought the twenties to the thirties with an uncomfortable ease.  
'It's quite alright Angelo, I've known-knew this man a long time ago.'  
'Eleven years this August,' Gatsby murmured faintly, turning a button on his jacket between his fingers.  
'I still-'  
'Angelo,' I began sharply, but he nodded, quietly stepping out and shutting the door.  
Outside, the sun was still high in the sky, an overclose warmth clinging to my skin. For a moment, I wondered if the weather was being sentimental perhaps, casting us back to a similar day which had marked the end of a long ago summer. Then I turned back to Gatsby, who quickly caught my eye.  
'I suppose you have a lot of questions, old sport,' he began, speaking softly as if dealing with the delicate heart of someone once loved.  
'Questions?' I cut across him 'No, I wouldn't say questions, I was thinking more of demanding an explanation.'  
'Old sport-' he nodded slowly, gesturing towards a chair in the corner of the room. I too nodded, and he drew it close, sinking down to eye level.  
'I'd like to first apologize for any-'  
'We buried you, you were in the ground. I saw you. I sat by your body for days in that house.'  
He attempted a pitiful smile, but there was a lost sadness in his eyes that I had only remembered months after that Summer.  
'Look old- Nick, let me explain, please.'  
I took a deep breath, but settled down, ignoring the creeping sensation of the heat on my back and the tightly wound anger in my fists.  
'One of Wolfsheim' s men arrived soon after you left that morning -he said nothing and so I though little of it, deciding, as I said I would, to make use of the pool. I'd been floating for an hour- and believe me when I say it old sport, I was feeling quite sick of it all- and that was when he arrived. Wilson, with the gun. I tried to talk to him but Wolfsheim' s man was already there, and he shot him in the head, right there,' Gatsby pointed to his temple 'then he asked me how long I could hold my breath, before instructing I get down underwater whilst he 'finished the job'. I did so, old sport and you know the rest from there.'  
'I heard the shot. I saw you dead.'  
'He shot at nothing. And you were wild Nick, you saw what you believed. Anyhow, it was all orchestrated. Everyone had to believe it for it to succeed. I was driven away and a few weeks later I was on my way to England.'  
'What about the body? That was you, I know it was you.'  
'You were drunk Nick, you wouldn't remember. Anyway, did you really believe Wolfsheim would miss my funeral?' He smiled lightly at this and for some reason, this riled me and I was on my feet, pacing behind my desk.  
'I was angry for you, I grieved Gatsby and they told me I needed help. I thought I owed it to you somehow, but it was all for what? So you could prance about in England whilst I- what were you doing in England?' I came to a halt beside the window, watching as two men stopped to talk and sip at cold water. You learnt pretty soon out here that anger only fed your problems.  
'Bad business, very bad business.'  
'What kind of bad business?' I enquired.  
'Bad, just very bad- look old sport, it's left me with nothing- and nobody.'  
'I see. How did you find me?'  
'It was difficult, Nick, but I followed what you had left behind.'  
I was about to question this too, but he was smiling, that captivating smile that choked down words and demanded you to do his will somehow.  
'Why are you here though?'  
'Why, old sport,' he grinned mysteriously 'Why, to show you that you can repeat the past.'  
It was that, I suppose, and just how far from the past we were or perhaps it was the strange twinkle in his eyes that started it.  
Laughter suddenly gurgled unpleasantly from my mouth, as if I was vomiting it up, unable to stop myself. Huge echoes of the horrendous sound spewed from my mouth until I was shuddering and I realized they were no longer chuckles, but wretched sobs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for such the long wait. I've been really busy with exams so.I didn't have much time :( thank you for all the kudos though and for being patient. Here's the next chapter!

I turned away from Gatsby, clasping on to the desk for support. I could feel his presence, looming and shifting, unsure of what to do. This was unplanned, a deceitful nightmare not those smooth, easy dreams he lives by.  
'Nick?' he stammered slightly, taking an awkward step forwards. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him reach out with his hand then hesitantly draw it back. He repeated this action several times before his hand finally came to rest on my shoulder.   
It was not that impersonal grip I had felt on the night of that first party, but something firm and real.  
'Nick?' He questioned again, and I turned, attempting a smile as I saw his concerned face. There was still an element of childness in it that made it difficult to upset it for too long.  
'Sorry, that was...'  
'No, no, old sport. I, I just never realized that anyone would be so affected by my.. death.'  
'Damn, Gatsby. I could hardly get over it. Nothing looked the same you know, it was all too gaudy, too..I don't know. I even wrote about it, pages and pages.'  
I stopped myself quickly, catching my tongue. The dusty manuscript was in a box now, slotted beneath my bed. It would be lying to suggest I hadn't touched it since, rather, there were lonely moments when only the past seemed to hold a friend.  
'I didn't know you were a writer.' Gatsby said after a moment.  
'No, I don't suppose it ever came up.'  
'Come to think of it, I hardly knew anything about you.'  
' None of us did.   
'About anyone. No, we didn't, did we.' Gatbsy looked up to the peeling paint work of the ceilings 'sometimes it felt as though I was at masked ball, not just a big party.'  
'When I left, after you had... I wanted everything to be in uniform, easy to identify, no secrets, no twists. Somehow I found my way here - there's nothing glamorous or artificial about this. It's terrible and I can see that.'  
' So you like it here?' Gatsby frowned softly, confusion sparkling in those eyes.  
'Careless people don't last long here. They move on. They don't prey or linger like they did in New York. There's nothing pretentious or false. It's grim and I can get on with it.'  
'I never did understand it, Nick.' He looked at me intently 'I was given the impression your family was wealthy, yet you chose to be poor.'  
This of course, was an exaggeration. I was never poor, rather I chose to work to explode the idea that I was incapable or lazy. It was, I suppose, about not making judgements, removing my advances in a weak attempt to be humble.  
Being honest and refraining from judgement, however is something I have simply prided myself in saying. When I left the East, I realised it was precisely what I had done. With every page I wrote, each lavish detail and bitter comment, I had discovered that I'd swallowed my own words and had forgotten about them. It had become a label I applied to somehow reassure and advertise myself, a weak phrase , a painted mask.  
My name is Nick and I am honest. My name is Gatsby, I collected rubies and fought in the war. My name is Jordan, I play golf. That silly sentence we use to define ourselves was all it was.  
I suppose it was loneliness too that made me judgemental. Within and without is a solo affair, entangled but rejected. I watched and I noted as it was all I could do.  
'I needed to do something. I couldn't just watch any more.'  
Gatsby smiled strangely all of a sudden. 'We can alter the past'  
'What are you..'  
'The past Nick, the past. A party,' he was beaming 'something to make people smile because they're so sad here.'  
At this, I frowned. This wasn't the age when people smiled because they were sad and false. It was an age where people smiled because they had nothing to be happy about but weren't sad either. They smiled because there was no other option.   
'Gatsby, you know we can't repeat the past.'  
'Why old sport, of course we can,' he chuckled, recalling a conversation from all those summer's ago. Then, the smile dropped and he looked at me imploringly 'please, Nick. It's been a long time, a difficult long time. I need...I need something that's familiar.'  
It was always difficult to say no to Gatsby, so I swallowed and sighed ' but who's going to come to a party round here?'  
Gatsby grinned 'they'll come by the hundreds.'


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, first off, I just want to say a massive thank you for reading this and an even bigger apology for taking so long with updates. I just lost my flow with this, but I'm trying again now after getting a really awesome comment :) not sure if this chapter is as well written as the others, but I hope you enjoy :)  
> The Great Gatsby is not mine, it belongs to Fitzgerald. And the really obscure Of Mice and Men reference (which may not be found XD) belongs to Steinbeck  
> Writing and Angelo are mine :)  
> Thank you!

I left Gatsby sitting in my office, in the chair by the window, a cigarette in one hand and my book in the other. The harsh sun grazed his hair and cast bright lines down his face and for a moment, I wondered if perhaps I was still sleeping. But as I glanced to the burning orb in the sky and it pained my eyes, I could no longer doubt my senses. He was sitting, the epitome of something I could never quite define, but he didn’t belong and looking back, I suppose he never had.  
I had of course been hesitant to give him the book, but he’d been insistent and my will has never been too strong when it has come to Gatsby. Many times have I looked over my words and thought of myself as nothing but a fool, a middle man in a chain of events that I would gain nothing from, but a friend who may or may not have liked me.  
But that was in the past, that book is a relic and we must move forward. I did so, leaving him in the office and walking across the yard of the ranch. Angelo was sitting on the floor, the clock in one too many pieces across the ground, a tool in his mouth.  
‘It ain’t so bad,’ he mumbled ‘I jus’ – sir, who was that fella then?’  
‘None of your business. Is it nearly fixed?’  
‘Oh sure, I almost done. But about that man, if it happens roun’ here, I wanna know.’  
I frowned as he bit his cheeks, checking his tongue. Had I been the sort of man, I would have put him in the place, but I’ve always found I am the sort to keep it in my head instead.  
‘Someone I’ve known for a long time, that’s all,’ I said sharply, and he looked disappointed, because I suppose Gatsby was a flicker of colour on an infertile field. Someone had added a bright blue to the sepia paint palette and it was going to distort the picture, make it abstract. That was Gatsby for you.  
I made my way across to the field, to check on the men. I like to show my presence here because I’ve learnt that absence simply turns people wild. It was only on two occasions you see that I met the man in charge of the bond business and we were all wild. I would call Jordan, Gatsby and maybe a client every now and then and the man working besides me called no one but women. And then there were the parties, Gatsby’s parties with the invisible host who no one cared enough to respect.  
‘Sir, we saw a man come in – in a suit, you ain’t selling up are? ‘cos we like your way of doin’ things and we ain’t sure we want no suited guy to go changing things up,’ a tall man called, leading a mule over to a water bucket.  
‘No, no, that’s, that’s a friend of mine.’  
He smiled, a patient, kind smile. I still marvel when I see one, a true smile. One that isn’t forgotten with a fleeting glance.  
‘He look like a rich fella, but an alright one. He staying here?’  
‘I think so. He wants to hold a party.’  
‘A party? Here? Well, he’d have to be hella crazy, but it would sure be nice to see someb’dy do somethin’ for a change.’  
‘I suppose it would.’  
‘He ain’t scared of the world, I guessing. Anyway, anything we can do you sir?’  
‘No, no, you better get back to work.’  
‘Good to see ya, sir,’ he tilted his hat, before leading the mule away.  
I have noted that here, every visit, every conversation is like a flash, a small moment taken from a novel. There is nothing lengthy, nothing static but it’s recorded, written down. Those meetings in the twenties, they were just lost film footage. But I am dwelling again, in that overarching past.  
With a quick glance to Angelo, who had achieved very little with the clock, I re-entered my house, stopping to pour some tea. In stepping back to the office, Gatsby only looked more like an anachronism, a misplaced extra from a shot for the big screen  
‘It's rather charming, old sport,’ Gatsby reclined back in a chair, holding the book ‘some might have said you were even in love with me,’ he laughed, carelessly.  
I too laughed, but it was too taught, too loud.  
'Where did you get that idea from, Gatsby?'  
'Call me Jay -but that would be easier.'  
I nodded, uncomfortably, because of course, it wasn't. Nothing was ever quite so simple with Gatsby, his parties may have thrived of the simplicity but there was a labyrinthine thought process behind them. It was complex in it's simplicity, much I suppose in the same way that I felt towards the man.  
But how can I explain something so complex, with a thousand winding roads, wrong turns and always going left, back to where we started. Like a house of mirrors maybe, everything extorted, slightly off, but there none the less, glaring disfigured into your face. Perhaps that explains nothing at all but then maybe it's not meant to be defined.  
'I've had an idea, old sport, from this reading,' he rested the book, or rather the manuscript, down, carefully pressing it into the table 'anyone will be able to come. Anyone. It will be like the World Fair – on that big field out there,’ Gatsby painted a picture across the air with his hand ‘they’ll be music of course, drink and people. It will be like this,' he tapped the book 'golden and...hazy. And perhaps, just perhaps an old friend will be passing California and they'll know -that's a Gatsby party.'  
His face was radiant, those deep platonic daydreams swamping his mind, building a tight buffer from the harsh, dead beat lands of the depression era.  
'Where do you plan to get the money from? The people?'  
'I have way, I will get it,' he smiled, installing for a moment a burst of firm confidence, a draw towards his fantastical fair.  
‘You said you had nothing.’  
‘I always have something old sport, just not a mansion,’ he chuckled ‘I’ve been saving of course, for an occasion’  
'Where did you get it?'  
'Bad buisness,' he said quietly 'please, don't look at me like that. But I need to do something, some great with it. What good is it to me now?'  
'Things don't work like that round here. There are decent men but they come and go,' like caterpillars, I've always thought, in search of becoming a butterfly, only to find out they were a moth all along 'they don't stay about, they don't come when they're called, only when needed. That's the way.'  
'But it could be different, it could be that way,' his smile was wild, a child's grin.  
I shook my head, but said nothing. Instead, I took a seat by the desk and he drew closer. For a minute, neither spoke, until Gatsby lay a hand on my knee.  
'I'd like to apologise old sport.'  
'What on earth for, Gatsby?'  
'A great many things. Dying, Daisy -using you.'  
'Gatsby! Don't be so ridiculous, there's nothing-'  
'Oh no, old sport, Nick. There is because I've had time to think. You may not have thought it, but I have and I need to apologise. And say thank you.'  
'Thank you?' Was it not Gatsby who we were all in deep gratitude to once, in a long ago, drifting decade?  
'For being a friend of a man not worth it.'  
'No-'  
He raised his hand, then shifted his face back into that smile 'is there a room old sport, I'll take any but I need to...'  
'On the left, down there,' I pointed, unable to get up, my voice having clenched into an odd anger.  
'Thank you old sport. Good night.'  
'Good night Gatsby.'  
It tasted strange in my mouth here.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter. Sorry about the wait and I'm really sorry if it's a disappointing chapter.
> 
> Gatsby belongs to Scott Fitzgerald
> 
> Writing is mine

I laid awake for many hours that evening, my ears sharp to the men's chatter in the distance and to the ghostly creaks of the wooden floor. My mind had gone to my cousin Daisy, comfortable in her extravagant home, a shield of inheritance protecting her from the colourless thirties.

Tom had said after the crash that he'd known what was coming and mocked those who invested in such trivial companies, and lost everything. I however got the distinct feeling that he simply never invested out of carelessness, to consumed in a game of polo to glance at the market properly.

They went on to have another child, a girl, Clemmie, a forgotten doll amongst the upper class dinners. Daisy threatens to send them to the 'nasty, dirty ranch little Nicky owns' if they don't behave and I am always waiting for that day where the unfortunate arrive. People like Tom and Daisy drop tainted things like unwanted autumn leaves.

But that was not the main subject of my thoughts.

No, many a time have I contemplated the day when Gatsby realised he loved Daisy under a pearlescent moon, but tonight I thought of when he realised he no longer needed her. Was it that night where she fell silent on him or was it as he took his final swim, choosing between loving her to death or moving forwards and running for his life. Perhaps it was later still, when he was surrounded by bad buisness that it occurred to him, that if he loved her, then it would not be bad at all.

Whenever it was, I could hear her voice in my head, a sickly sweet tone that only money can buy and the pungent smell of old bank notes swarming my nose. I had to get out of bed in the end and go into the yard, inhaling the grim, cold air.

'Alright, sir?' Angelo was still sitting outside, attempting to mend the clock in the dark 'jus' getting this done.'

'How about you wait until the morning, you can't fix it in the dark,' I suggested as I took a seat on small wall in front of my house, glancing up towards the room where I had put Gatsby.

'That suited man still here?' Angelo had carefully begun wrapping the broken clock away.

I nodded 'yes,' and then added unnecessarily 'in that front room.'

'The other guys say he wanna have party. Is he cuckoo fella, cos who wants a party out here?'

'No, he's not crazy,' I frowned 'he just wants to have a party, to please people.'

'I jus' don't trust fellas like that.'

'Well you can trust Gatsby. I've known him a long time.'

Angelo nodded and we fell into a silence, and with a twinge of embarrassment I realized the irony of my statement. The man who was dead, who lied about his life, who to a degree, used me under not quite honest pretences, that was the man you could trust. But there has always been an innocence about Gatsby, that boyish charm which gives the distinct impression that he means no harm and any deception was for your own sake, rather his own conscience.

'If we can trust him, then why do you look so on edge sir, if you don' no mind me bein' nosy now.'

I sighed, for I am not accustomed to talking my thoughts aloud.

'Sorry, if-'

'No, no, you see...he's, Gatsby, I mean, has been gone a very long time and he just comes back today, completely unchanged- Angelo, are you the same man you were ten years ago?'

'Ha! No, so so different now, from when I was a lad, I am.'

'As am I, I believe. But Gatsby, Gatsby is the same, perhaps there's been one or two alterations, but it's almost uncanny.'

'Say, let me tell you a little story. I know some girl, Lola, an' she always use to have nice party dresses an' that kinda thing, and then one day, she said no, I wanna be a man and work the fields. People thought she'd gone crazy and finally, one day she jus' changed her mind and went back to her ol' self. It was familiar, she said, and I liked it, because it reminded me of some other time. Maybe that's what happened to your Gatsby. He tried to go away and then jus' had to come back, to what he knows.'

'He doesn't know this place.'

The man laughed haughtily 'No, I could damn well tell that from his suit. Who goes 'bout in a suit round here. No, but he knows you and that why he gotta have a party. Maybe it will work out, you know.'

I nodded vaguely, neither agreeing nor disagreeing as I stood up and walked away. It had laid itself out like a simple map, this was Gatsby and Gatsby dwelled in the past. It was an unchanging characteristic, constant in his whims. First it had been Dan Cody, the need to be wealthy, and then to Daisy, an urge to cross an impossible crossing. It seemed now that it was to an era, a time where Gatsby could do all right, except what he really wanted to do. He clings to these unusual things, I have noted, but perhaps he simply clings to inevitable failure. He's the over reaching hero, reckless and ambitious for all he can't have, oblivious to the consequences.

 

 

But as I lay back in my bed, I recalled a moment from that summer, or rather the Autumn following, of myself, sitting on his desolate, darkened beach. For a minute, I had been Gatsby then, looking out across the dock to a green, artificial light symbolizing the relic that was his Daisy.

Except I had been Nick, looking out for Gatsby, a friend in a friendless world. I had reached out, written a whole novel on it and then never let the pages linger enough to get dusty.

I was a fool, like the rest, because we need the past, we need our sentiments to find the future.

Perhaps Gatsby is right. We need a party.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, as usual, and I hope this okay  
> Thank you for reading :)  
> Gatsby belongs to Fitzgerald

For the next two days, I barely heard from Gatsby, except when we dined and even then, he seemed so impenetrably consumed in thought, that he hardly muttered a word. I supposed he had fallen back into the well of the past, and I know, from experience, that the fall is deep and the ascent is a difficult one. Then, on the third day, he emerged at noon, wearing the same suit, and he no longer shone when he walked into my office.  
He seemed to have sunken into the sepia, a brown glaze settling into the very particles of his being. It has that affect here. I have seen men, young and wild as we were back then, they pass through here and whilst they leave still clean-shaven, there is dirt wedged deep into their fingernails.  
Gatsby seemed to be holding well though, a sparkle of wealth and elevated understanding lighting his eyes, but the brown was crawling over his being nonetheless. His smile was short, warm but not that rare, understanding one that I have savoured over these years.  
‘Good morning, old sport, or should I say, afternoon,’ he smiled that small smile, then let it fall ‘I’ve been thinking, about the party, and, well, I need to make some inquiries. Do you have a telephone, old sport – Nick – I hadn’t seen one but…’  
‘Not here, no. I can’t…well, we can’t afford one, or get one up here. There’s one, down in the town.’  
‘The town?’ Gatsby’s eyes flew wide, before settling again ‘what a long way to go to make a call.’  
‘You don’t really miss it, when you spent so many sitting besides one. Besides, who have I got to call?’  
Gatsby looked down, but said nothing.  
‘I can take you down there, if you like.’  
‘That would be very kind of you, old sport – but I must ask another favour.’  
‘Of course.’ It has always been difficult, to say no to Gatsby. Perhaps in that respect, I admire Daisy, for the way she could turn her back, whereas I could only stay where I was, staring into the empty distance.  
‘Well old sport, it is rather awful to say, but I have been in this suit far too long, and I left in a hurry, and have nothing with me. Is there…is there any chance that I may borrow something of yours.’  
‘Of course,’ I repeated him, standing up to direct him to my closet ‘if it will fit.’  
‘I do hope so.’  
I eyed Gatsby carefully, as he turned over my shirts and my ties, contemplating each item overly carefully. Gatsby had always been one for delicacy when talking about his own affairs and bad business and hurries seemed far too simple for him. I did, I admit, ponder then upon whether this visit would end the same as the last, with Gatsby, the disappearing man, slinking into the world of the not quite dead.  
‘May I wear this one?’ he held up perhaps one of my plainest shirts.  
‘Of course,’ I repeated again.  
He smiled ‘thank you, old sport.’

***  
It was peculiar, to say the least, to see Gatsby is something so immeasurably plain. No one took note of him as we passed the other ranches littered along the dirt track road and perhaps that was what was so jarring. I believe Gatsby felt it too, for he shifted his collar continuously, until I asked if there was something wrong with the shirt.  
‘No old sport, nothing at all.’  
We continued walking in silence, the sun smouldering our skin with its relentless rays and the dust breezing vengefully into our faces. If it is not artificial lights stinging your eyes, then it is dirt and grime scratching their surface. I believe we are always squinting, we can never open our eyes as wide as we should.  
‘Do you hear from Daisy often?’ Gatsby asked suddenly. His tone was nervous, a waver as he spoke her name as though it was a curse, or a ghost, placing its fingers around his neck.  
‘Now and then. Not very often.’  
‘How is she now?’  
‘Oh, she’s been everywhere. They have another daughter, they threaten to send them here sometimes, the children, I mean.’  
‘But they don’t visit?’  
‘No. Never.’ This was something I have always been grateful of, that Daisy’s words only come in words or telephone calls and the line mars over her sickly sweet tone.  
‘That’s a shame,’ Gatsby murmured quietly.  
‘What!’ I may have spoken to fiercely for Gatsby halted in his step, eyes blinking slightly. It was an involuntary reaction, a fiery burst of unnecessary and undue passion, but there was a terrible echo in his words as I remembered a conversation over the phone with Daisy four years after Gatsby’s death. An awful shame, she had said idly, but have you heard, Nicky, Jordan is having an affair!  
I had ground my teeth as she spoke of this mystery person who hid beneath black hats and loose suits, but in my head, I saw her, and Tom, and all of them, in the light of the orchid white moon, and I thought not of love, nor benevolence, but of werewolves and ghouls in the dark night.  
‘No, no old sport,’ Gatsby kept his voice quiet ‘I meant for you, she is your cousin, after all.’  
Then, he dropped his head and continued walking, only speaking again to ask where this phone was. My reply was disjointed, but he smiled, a taut smile, nonetheless and we found our way there.  
I stood back, watching him, as I had done all those summers ago, talking in that same tone, with those same words. How is it, that the whole world can fall apart, can shift so momentously and Gatsby still be the same man that he was ten years ago?


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I haven't updated this in so long. I'm so, so sorry to anyone who was following it and thank you for all the kudos!  
> Hope this chapter is ok though  
> The Great Gatsby belongs to S.Fitzgerald

'Who is it you need to call?' I asked as we arrived at the single telephone box in the town. During that summer, I would never have dared ask such a question, rather I was like the rest of them, walking half blind through a world where I didn't always disturb the surface of the truth. I had tried, occasionally, but it wasn't always forthcoming. It had seemed easier then to let things be and let the imagination take stage, but here, there was a space to fill and something needed to cover the loud, angry conversation of rather flustered man inhabiting the box.  
'Wolfsheim,' he replied simply.  
'That bad business?'  
'He's moved on from those brackets now - he needed something bigger, you know old sport, to keep up with the times.'  
I didn't, but then I had never taken the time to truly unravel what was Wolfsheim. Rather, in my head there lingered two images of him; one was of a cuff link, a human tooth, it's surface half cream, off white as if soaked in tea. In my head, it had been his father's- he'd plucked it out on the man's death bed, a display of heretics and a rise to power. The other was of two bulbous fingers, held up to the light, engraved with the word 'together'.  
Nothing more was said and at long last, the man exited the box, half embarrassed, half angry that we'd stood outside. He hunched into himself, as if guarding something invisible beneath his coat.  
'I won't be a minute, old sport,' Gatsby smiled.  
I glanced in through the small window for a moment, watching as Gatsby spoke in a low mutter, harshness staining those usual gentle tones, as his eyes narrowed and opened, his frown deepening. I turned away, looking instead at white washed building of the theatre, its doors closed, the new films not yet announced outside.  
I'd never been in there, not that one. Some of the men still saw the glamour, those false smiles and apathetic love stories, carefully crafted to seem real, yet not quite real enough. I supposed that was the appeal, a cheap variety of something none of us had, shown on a screen so you didn't even have to use your imagination to indulge in fantasy.  
There was one actress, Amelie, that all the men liked. There she is, I remember one of them saying, tapping at the blank smiling face of a girl on a magazine front. A real beaut, don't you think, he'd grinned one of those rotten smiles that you're supposed to return, but I couldn't, not then.  
If I remember rightly though, she'd shocked them all one day by appearing in a set of overalls, a hat slung over her head and her eyes wild. None of them could talk of her for a while, until she'd been in another film, playing another hopeless girl and she'd reminded me of Daisy then. I was wretched, Nicky, she'd written, so wretched that no one could meet my eye. And then! (she'd underlined it too) Tom bought me this most beautiful necklace and suddenly I was all they could talk about.  
The opening of the telephone box dried away these thoughts and Gatsby emerged, looking like a man who'd revisited a ghost.  
'I'd hoped,' I muttered 'that you'd left this all behind. I-'  
He smiled that disarming smile and I ceased to speak. It was no surprise, I thought idly, that he survived the war; you'd of dropped your gun, destabilized if you'd come face to face with him.  
'I do worry, you know,' I said quietly 'I always did.'  
The smile faltered slightly, but again Gatsby said nothing, simply placing instead a hand on my shoulder. He squeezed for a moment, then let go, beckoning me to follow him up the road.  
'Do you ever hear from Jordan?' he asked when the silence had grown weighty and humid. I glanced at him; here we were, walking back into the past.  
'She's married now - not happily, I don't suppose.'  
I remember, three months after she was married, she had given up golf and withdrawn from the headlines. She was painted over quickly, a new golfer emerged, no moustache of perspiration above her lip and she wore all her dresses like party dresses, but she was dull in a strange, light hearted simpering way. I remember muttering to myself something about bad drivers only being cured when they were put in the back seats, but that wasn't Jordan at all. If anything, I was angry for her.  
She's barely mentioned in Daisy's letters, those jumbles of wealthy adventures painted in pastel shades and framed with a trim of gold, underpinned with those sharp little jabs, you aren't still on that little dirty ranch are you Nicky?  
'A shame,' Gatsby murmured.

 

It was growing dusky when we reached the ranch and most of the men had retired to the bunkhouse, leaving the yard filled with the ghostly pang of old conversations. Only the tall, patient man and Angelo remained, one sitting at a feeble table, playing a half hearted game of cards, and the other sat on the floor, fixing another clock.  
He looked up as we entered.  
'Evening sir-sirs- I near finished this one now, almost got it working.'  
'Thank you, Angelo.'  
It's become a bit of a vice, I must admit, these old clocks. I can't help it, I keep buying them, knowing full well they're useless and yet, I can't help it, I can't leave them there unfixed.  
'It's just- I can't-' Angelo held the clock precariously upside down 'can't quite see-'  
The tall man stood up with a quiet sigh, unfolding the corner of a card and then disappearing, returning with a lamp. He placed it by Angelo, who frowned gently.  
'That moon ain't doing it's job- not even out yet, see.'  
The tall man leant back in his seat, shaking his head.  
I turned back to Gatsby, intending to mention something about food, however he was staring at my house critically, his eyes focused and determinined.  
'With the right furniture...' he muttered suddenly nodded slightly and walked into my house, leaving me outside.  
Within and without. That was what I'd written, wasn't it.  
I'd thought it was just that summer I'd felt it, that haze of yellow and blue and I, my eyes squinted, blinded by an artificial sun, disconnected, out of love, yet in it all the same.  
It occurred to me then, that it wasn't the case. Rather, I'd had always been within and without, my father's words clanging in my head, painted on my face, at the tip of my tongue. And inside, dishonesty and judgement swelled and spewed into a whole novel. Within and without, I half laughed, I was the jolty side character in one of those films the men sometimes like to watch, the one who says that ever so key line yet you can never can quite recall their name.  
Nicky.  
Old sport.  
I laughed. It wasn't even funny.


End file.
